


We Band of Brothers

by Stop_Looking_At_My_Name



Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy
Genre: Camaraderie, Death, Fluff, Friendship, Humour, Mevolent's War era, Pre-Canon, The Dead Men, War Against Mevolent, War Era, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2018-12-24 09:36:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12009996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stop_Looking_At_My_Name/pseuds/Stop_Looking_At_My_Name
Summary: A look at the Dead Men, during the war against Mevolent





	1. What Doesn't Kill You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghastly's holding out for a hero.

Not for the first time in his life, Ghastly wished he’d followed his father’s advice and left the fighting to his mother. It might have meant a few more jeers from the already disdainful townsfolk, but at least then his life would be quieter; his days spent picking out fabrics and sewing together seams instead of picking off Mevolent’s soldiers and sewing shut wounds.

It was too late to change his mind now though, sat in a cell awaiting his execution or rescue. He was hoping for the latter – Erskine had promised him they’d have him out in no time – but he was beginning to think the former was more likely.

He was also beginning to think he shouldn’t trust Erskine.

Still, if anyone had a reason to save him it was Erskine. He’d been captured before himself, and knew the cruelties of Mevolent’s followers better than any of them, save for Skulduggery. In fact, Ghastly was willing to bet that those footsteps he could hear coming towards him belonged to Erskine. He’d taken his time but he’d pulled through in the end. The door began to open, and Ghastly jumped to his feet, ready to embrace his friend the moment his handsome, golden-eyed face appeared.

The door opened. It wasn’t Erskine.

Instead, a heavyset redhead with a cruel face stood in the doorway, a callous grin on his face. “Ready to die, Dead Man?” He asked. Ghastly backed away slowly, wondering how he could fight this man off with his hands shackled behind his back. The redhead man lumbered into the room as Ghastly retreated, raising his fist and baring his teeth wickedly. Before the blow could land, a small man with a receding hairline crept into the room and muttered something quietly to the redhead.

“What? Speak up, man!” The small man gestured for the redhead to come closer, and whispered in his ear.

A look of shock passed over the redhead man’s face. His mouth fell open in horror as he looked down at his stomach. The small man withdrew a bloody knife from the other man’s belly and stood up straighter as the redhead fell to the floor. No, not just straighter: _taller_. The man was growing taller by the second, as he grew his hair did too, and his features changed, morphing into a face that was completely unremarkable except for its exceptionally long eyelashes. A familiar face.

“Hopeless!” Ghastly cried, running towards his friend. Hopeless, never one to live up to his name, slipped behind Ghastly and unlocked his shackles before using the knife to finish gutting the dying man with brutal efficiency.

“You could have just slit his throat, you know,” Ghastly reproached. Hopeless shrugged and began leading Ghastly out of the maze of cells and cellars towards the castle exit. Why was it that Mevolent’s supporters always seemed to have castles while most of their side made do with pokey houses and cramped apartments?

“I’m having this castle when we’re finished,” Ghastly told Hopeless as they ran up another flight of stairs. “It’s about time one of our lot got a grand abode, don’t you think? I could settle down here, once the war is over. Marry some English lady and spend my days hunting game and reading _The Odyssey_ in the original Latin, or whatever it is rich lords do.”

“ _The Odyssey_ is Greek,” said Hopeless, “and you won’t want this castle by the time we’re through with it.” At that moment, Dexter Vex dropped down from a platform above them with a shouted greeting.

“All set,” he announced brightly. “Just need to get ourselves out of here and then the festivities can start!”

“What festivities?” Asked Ghastly, but neither Hopeless nor Dexter answered him. The three of them made it through the castle gate but didn’t stop running until they were almost a quarter of a mile away. When they finally stopped Ghastly doubled over, panting. He glared enviously at his companions when he noticed that neither of them seemed to have any trouble catching their breath. In fact, Dexter was stood up straight, his hand stretched into the sky.

“You think we’re far enough?” He asked Hopeless. Hopeless nodded and Dexter shot an energy stream into the sky. A few seconds later there was an answer – a ball of fire shot into the sky about a mile away, letting them know that the signal had been received. For a few moments, the three men stood next to one another, listening to the sounds of the birds and the wind.

Then the castle blew up.

 

* * *

 

 

 

The Dead Men reunited just over a mile away from the wreck that was once a castle. There was plenty of cheering and back-slapping as everybody celebrated their victory and fussed over Ghastly.

“It’s nothing. I’m fine, really,” he said for perhaps the hundredth time.

“Are you sure?” Asked Anton, also for the hundredth time. “Mevolent’s acolytes are not known for their care and compassion towards prisoners.”

“I’ve told you: I’m fine. They basically just hit me over the head and chucked me in a cell. As soon as the lump on my head goes down, they’ll be no sign I was ever captured.”

“Well that’s not fair!” said Erskine, moving aside so that Anton could inspect the lump on Ghastly’s head. "Why didn’t you get tortured? Why do you never get tortured? All the rest of us do – you’re the only one who gets away scot-free every time!”

“He’s not the only one,” Saracen contradicted “I’ve never been tortured, have I?”

“What are you talking about?” Questioned Anton, puzzled. “You were tortured by the Butcher. He had you for more than three days!”

“Oh,” said Saracen, glancing down guiltily. “Oh, yes. I… I think I must have repressed that memory.” Ghastly snorted, but managed to pass it off as a pained sound. Anton stopped poking at his scarred head with a look of concern.

“Time to go,” said Skulduggery – the first words he’d spoken since Ghastly’s return.

“Nice to see you too, old friend.” Ghastly smiled. Skulduggery, of course, was always smiling, but his voice stayed harsh and curt.

“Time to go,” he repeated, and this time everyone set about gathering their things. Only Skulduggery knew where they were going, but no one dared to question him while he was so clearly in a bad mood.

They walked for several hours, the six troops joking and laughing while their leader guided them in irritable silence. Predictably, it was Dexter who pushed it too far.

“Stop sulking, Skulduggery, come and have a laugh with us! There’s nothing to mope about. Ghastly’s rescued, Mevolent’s lost a loyal soldier and an important castle, and we get to enjoy this lovely walk through the woods!”

Skulduggery rounded on him.

“Do you think this is a game, Vex? Ghastly could have died today and not one of you is showing the slightest bit of concern.”

“He’s alright though, isn’t he? We’re all fine and dandy so there’s no reason to be grumpy.”

“You have no idea how close we came today, do you? You have no idea how lucky we were that Ghastly isn’t dead or worse.”

“Skulduggery, I’m fine,” soothed Ghastly, reaching out to him. “I’m not dead. I’m not even hurt. Everything’s alright.” Skulduggery jerked away from Ghastly’s hand.

“You have no idea, none of you,” he muttered. “No respect for the dangers we face. No inkling of what it’s like to wait, helpless and alone, knowing that the end is near. You don’t know what it’s like to die. If you did, you wouldn’t be so carefree.”

The Dead Men stood together, mute and guilty in the wake of Skulduggery’s words. Dexter mumbled an apology and after a few minutes Skulduggery turned and began leading them through the trees once again. After a few more minutes had passed, Skulduggery broke the tension with a joke about how nice it was to be able to go for two minutes without hearing one of Saracen’s far-fetched tales of heroic escapades and daring fights. Saracen gave an indignant response and launched into an amusing story about the time he’d – allegedly – managed to defeat five vampires using only an empty beer barrel and his left shoe.

 By the time they’d set up camp for the night everyone was in good spirits. Since it seemed they hadn’t been followed, it was agreed that there was no need for extra sentries so the rest of them could get some sleep while Skulduggery guarded the camp.

Dexter unrolled his blanket from his pack and settled down on the leafy ground. They hadn’t had any supper – on account of them not having any food – but Skulduggery assured them that they would be meeting up with a teleporter by the following evening, and the Dead Men were used to going without food for that long. All-in-all, it had turned out to be quite a pleasant day. There was one thing still playing on Dexter’s mind, though.

“Skulduggery?” He whispered.

“Yes, Dexter?”

“Does… does dying hurt?”

“Yes,” answered Skulduggery shortly.

“Oh.”

“It hurts a lot.”

“I see.”

“In fact it’s agonising.”

“Right. Thanks, Skulduggery. I just wanted to know.”

“I’d probably even say it’s the most excruciating experience one could ever be expected to endure.”

“But would you say it five times fast?” mumbled Saracen from where he was resting.

“It’s horrific,” continued Skulduggery gleefully. “You’re right to be worried, Dexter, because I can guarantee that it’s more terrible than anything you’ve ever experienced. It’s distressing, it’s depressing, it’s earth-shatteringly, unbearable painful.”

“Alright, alright! You can stop now, Skulduggery, Jesus!” Dexter’s unusually high-pitched voice cut through the still night. Saracen was sniggering into his blanket and it may have just been a trick of the dark, but Dexter was sure he could see a smile on Anton’s face.

“Well you asked,” said Skulduggery, turning back to survey the woods for approaching danger. Everyone lapsed into silence. Dexter’s heart was still beating fast from Skulduggery’s vivid descriptions.

Dexter tried to sleep, burrowing into the non-existent warmth he imagined he could feel under his blanket. Every noise from the trees and nocturnal creatures shocked him into alertness. The sky grew darker and one-by-one his fellow Dead Men fell into light slumbers.

Owls hooted from the branches and mice skittered in the undergrowth. Dexter pulled his blanket over his head to try and drown them out, focusing on the twin sounds of his own heartbeat and Skulduggery’s leisurely footsteps as he patrolled the edge of the camp. Eventually the footsteps stopped near Dexter’s head, and Dexter heard the gentle rustle of leaves as Skulduggery knelt down next to him.

“Dexter?”

“Mm-hm?”

“It doesn’t hurt.”

“Hmm?”

“Death. It doesn’t hurt. It’s just like falling asleep.”

“Oh,” said Dexter. He heard Skulduggery stand up and begin his circle of the camp once more, but by the time he passed by again, Dexter was sound asleep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this story very quickly so it's not my best work but I'm thinking of expanding it into a series of one-shots about the Dead Men. Let me know if you think I should and, if so, what kinds of stories I should write.
> 
> Please review! I love constructive criticism and I love blind praise even more!


	2. Elementals v Adepts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dead Men debate an age-old question.
> 
> Who's better: Elementals or Adepts?

 

Another day, another fight to the death. The Dead Men were more than used to death-defying escapades by now. This particular escapade was only supposed to be a reconnaissance mission, before it had spiralled out of control and turned into a fight for their lives. The Dead Men were used to that, too.

However, despite their many years fighting and almost-dying alongside one another, they still had a great deal to learn about each other.

“I didn’t know you could do that!” exclaimed Dexter, staring at Erskine in open-mouthed shock.

“Do what?” asked Erskine smugly. He’d been the hero of the day; gathering the necessary information before striking down dozens of Mevolent’s soldiers as he covered their escape.

“That… that water shield thing! I’ve never seen that before! When did you learn how to do that?”

“Many moons ago, my young Dexter,” replied Erskine, sitting up straighter on his horse and gazing into the distance with a superior expression. “We Elementals have more tricks up our sleeves than all of you Adepts combined.”

“Lie,” said Anton shortly.

“It is not a lie! You’d get a nasty surprise if you saw all the things I was capable of.”

“Not as nasty as the surprise you’d get if my gist came at you.”

“Boys, boys, it’s not a competition. You’re both horrible,” said Skulduggery. “Although Erskine’s right: We Elementals have powers you mere Adepts could only dream of.”

 “Then tell us, o great one,” challenged Hopeless. “What exactly _is_ it you can do?”

“We can throw fireballs for one thing. That’s pretty impressive, don’t you think?”

“My energy streams can do more damage,” said Dexter dismissively.

“And we can breathe underwater.”

“That’s not as useful as being able to shapeshift,” opined Hopeless. “Or walk on walls, or slow time, or teleport, or pick locks...”

“And you can’t breathe underwater, anyway, Skulduggery,” added Dexter. “You can’t even breathe on land.”

“Just because it’s not useful to me personally, doesn’t mean it’s a useless skill,” grumbled Skulduggery. “And why would anyone use magic to pick locks when they could just kick the door down instead?”

“Some of us don’t have to infuse everything we do with violence,” said Ghastly. “I’d quite like to be able to pick locks with a wave of my hand.”

“But Elemental magic is still better,” pressed Erskine. “Don’t you agree, Ghastly?”

“Oh, of course.”

“You wouldn’t rather be an energy thrower like me?” asked Dexter. “Or be like Saracen and be able to… What is it you do again, Saracen?”

“Nice try, Dexter.” Saracen smirked as Dexter sidled his horse towards him.

“One day I’ll pry the truth out of you, Rue.”

“I know you won’t, Vex.”

“At least tell me that your power is better than being an Elemental.”

“Of course. Any discipline’s better than being an Elemental. That’s one of the things I know.”

“Don’t talk rubbish,” said Erskine. “You can’t honestly expect me to believe that you’re not the slightest bit jealous of our powers?”

“Powers?” snorted Saracen “You’re not some kind of god, Erskine. All you can do is splash water in people’s faces.”

“Oh, you mustn’t underestimate our poor Elemental friends here,” admonished Hopeless. “They can do all sorts of tricks. Throwing dirt in people’s faces, for instance.”

“They can also blow air in people’s faces,” chipped in Dexter, “and light candles!”

“Blowing air and lighting candles,” Saracen smiled, “that is impressive. Why, between you, you have all the magical ability of a fan and a tinder box! Who wouldn’t want that?” All the Adepts, bar Anton, laughed and all the Elementals, bar Skulduggery, scowled.

“I’m still not convinced you have any magical ability at all, Rue,” snapped Erskine.

“If that were true, I would have nearly as much magical ability as you Elementals.”

“Either you hide your jealousy well or you don’t know the full extent of our powers.”

“What is it with you and _powers_? You don’t have _powers_ ; at best all you have are tricks.”

“Do you think being able to conjure a wall of flame is a mere _trick_ , Rue?”

“You can’t do that.”

“Or what about our ability to turn anything we touch into sand?”

“You can’t do that, either.”

“Oh yes we can,” argued Skulduggery. “We can manipulate lava too. Any half-decent Elemental could cause a volcanic eruption if they wanted.”

“Bollocks.”

“It’s true,” said Ghastly. “And it’s not just stone we can turn ourselves into: We can become beings of pure water too.”

“Really?” asked Dexter. Apparently he credited Ghastly with a truthfulness which he felt neither Skulduggery nor Erskine had.

“Oh, yes. And it’s not just stone and water – I could combine my fire and earth powers and turn myself into a lava monster.”

“Wow!” Dexter’s eyes were wide and his jaw was nearly touching the ground. Behind him, Saracen Rue was sighing and shaking his head.

“And it’s one of the Elemental community’s best-kept secrets that we can... no, no I can’t tell you that.”

“Tell me what? What is it? What can you do?”

“Don’t tell him! Don’t tell him Ghastly!” cried Skulduggery. Erskine couldn’t protest, since unlike Skulduggery he had to put a lot of effort into maintaining a straight face.

“No! No, tell me please!” begged Dexter.

“I’m not sure…”

“Please, Ghastly, we’ve been friends for years!”

“Well…”

“Please tell me! I’ll do anything! I’ll carry your pack for a month!”

“Only one month?”

“Two months, then!”

“I don’t know. It is a really big secret.”

“Three months! I promise, Ghastly, I will carry your pack for three months if you tell me.”

“Alright, then.” Ghastly shifted on his horse so that he could lean over to Dexter. “We can manipulate the sun,” he said quietly.

“Is that it?” asked Dexter disappointedly.

“ _Is that it_? Dexter, think of what that means. We can control the very temperature of the Earth, cause draughts and deserts, turn blackest night into brightest day! As a child, I used to scorch words into the ground by channelling the sun’s rays.”

“Really?” Dexter had regained interest, perking up slightly.

“Oh, yes, it’s a common game for Elemental children to play, isn’t that right?” Skulduggery and Erskine both murmured in the affirmative. Saracen’s disappointment in Dexter’s naïveté was palpable and Anton’s eyes had rolled so far back in his head it was a wonder he could see where he was going.

“That’s incredible!” Dexter looked awestruck. He was too focused on Ghastly to notice his companions’ reactions.

“I can still remember the first word I ever wrote that way, you know.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“What was it?”

“Gullible.”

“Eh?” Dexter frowned while everyone else laughed. Then he almost fell off his horse as Ghastly’s pack hit him with a loud thump.

“Three months. You promised,” Ghastly reminded him. Then he spurred his horse into a gallop, trying to escape Dexter who was chasing him over the hills, shouting and throwing energy beams all the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this very quickly so it's not my best work. I'd appreciate any (constructive) feedback or any ideas for further chapters. Thanks!


	3. The Assassination Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War is not a game. Everybody except Dexter agrees.

The field hospital was a grim place. A place of blood and suffering. Rows of makeshift beds where soldiers and civilians alike lay groaning in agony, their bodies wrapped in swiftly darkening bandages and their minds trapped in torment. It was a place where living men came to die, and a place where Dead Men came to whine incessantly.

“Ow!” gasped Hopeless. “Careful, doc; that hurts.”

“Well maybe you’ll think of that _before_ you get yourself stabbed next time.” The doctor didn’t understand why her patients felt the need to inform her of how much pain they were in. Did they think she didn’t know? She’d make a poor physician indeed if she’d never realised that stab wounds and stitches were painful.

“Well, I wasn’t _trying_ to get stabbed, Apathy.”

“That’s Doctor Twist to you, soldier. And I should hope not. I have far better things to do than sew you reckless idiots back together.”

“And what, pray tell, is more important to an army doctor than wounded soldiers?”

“Card games, good books, brandy, intelligent conversation…”

“I _am_ intelligent conversation! And surely your sense of duty…”

“Don’t interrupt,” snapped Apathy. “I wasn’t finished. There’s also my dogs, knitting, practicing my uilleann pipes, fixing that hole in my tent…. Oh, good morning, sir.” Hopeless turned to see Corrival Deuce stood in the doorway, flanked by five of Hopeless’ comrades.

“Good morning, Doctor Twist, Hopeless. I’ve come to see– oof!” Deuce was shoved to one side as Saracen burst out from behind him.

“Hopeless! Are you alright? I was so worried when I heard you’d been stabbed. Is it serious?”

“I’m fine,” Hopeless reassured him. “Apathy here fixed me up in no time.” Apathy didn’t respond to his praise, instead focusing on the pair of knitting needles she’d retrieved from next to her scalpels. “Where’s Dexter?”

“He’s been stabbed too,” explained Skulduggery grimly. “And Anton was attacked, but he made it out unharmed. Another coordinated attempt to take out multiple important figures at once. Very much Serpine’s style.” Hopeless couldn’t blame Skulduggery for his bitterness. Nobody knew Serpine’s methods better than he and no one had suffered more because of them.

“We’ll catch him,” promised Hopeless. “We’ll make him pay for what he’s done, I swear to you.” Everyone present stood in silence for a few moments, brooding on the unimaginable evil that was Nefarian Serpine. Even the other patients had gone quiet, as though out of respect for past injuries much worse than their own.

 Then Anton sneezed, completely ruining the moment.

Corrival offered him a handkerchief, and then turned to address the group. “This is the fourth time this year that Hopeless has been targeted by assassins, to say nothing of the many times the rest of you have faced them. It seems that these strikes are becoming more frequent. We must be wary of them.”

“Four times?” questioned Saracen in amazement. “You’ve been attacked four times this year? I doubt I’ve encountered five attacks in the last decade!”

“Perhaps you’re not as popular as you think you are,” suggested Ghastly.

“Oh, really? And when was the last time you were targeted, Ghastly? The eighteenth century, was it?”

“I’ll have you know I was shot at as recently as 1831.”

“Yes, but that was only because you’d wandered into a hunting party.” Ghastly was about to make a sharp retort when Skulduggery cut in.

“What about me?”

“Well, what about you?”

“Well, I’ve actually been murdered, haven’t I? Mevolent clearly felt I was dangerous enough that the task could only be entrusted to one of his most devoted generals, rather than a few minor would-be assassins. Ergo, I must be perceived as the most feared enemy of the lot of us.”

“No, just the easiest to kill.”

“It is _not_ a popularity contest!” burst out Corrival Deuce. “You ought to be more careful, all of you. You never know when one of these fiends might get lucky and end your life.”

“No, we don’t,” admitted Skulduggery, “but if I had to guess, I’d say it would happen on the 23rd of October, 1700.” Everyone laughed at that, except for Apathy who was too engrossed in her knitting to notice.

Once the laughter had died out, Corrival turned to look at the Dead Men with a sober expression. “In all seriousness, men; be careful. I’d hate to lose any of you to an assassin’s blade, especially if it was through your own arrogance or carelessness.”

“Have no fear, my friend,” said Saracen. “Strike from security, disappear into safety – that’s our motto!”

“We are warriors,” declared Anton solemnly. “We know this isn’t a game.”

 

* * *

 

 

“I just got poisoned, I just got poisoned!” sing-songed Dexter as he danced around the camp. “That makes three assassination attempts this month! I’m in the lead.”

“Three?” questioned Saracen. “How do you work that out, then?” Skulduggery was reading a book under a nearby tree. It was only the three of them in the camp, the others having gone to collect supplies from a local village. Lucky beggars – they didn’t have to listen to Dexter’s so-called singing.

“I got poisoned last night, someone attacked me as I slept on Tuesday, and then there was that lady who came after me with a knife when we were in Madrid.”

“That lady was just angry you insulted her cat; she wasn’t an assassin.”

“I wasn’t in battle and she tried to kill me, therefore it counts.”

“And I’m not convinced you were really poisoned, either. I think you just had too much to drink the night before last.”

“I did not!”

“You did too!”

“Well, let’s ask Skulduggery, he can be judge. Skulduggery, was I poisoned?”

“I am not participating in this.”

“Oh, come on, Skulduggery, please! You want to prove Saracen wrong, don’t you?”

Skulduggery thought about this for a moment. “Will you stop singing if I agree with you?”

“On my word as a Dead Man.”

“Very well, then. Saracen, Dexter _was_ poisoned.”

“Yes!” hissed Dexter, punching the air as Saracen groaned.

“ _But_ ,” added Skulduggery, “that doesn’t mean that you’re in the lead, Dexter. If either of you had spoken to Hopeless recently you might have heard that he recently escaped his _seventh_ brush with death.”

“ _Seventh_!” Dexter’s mouth dropped open. “In one month?”

“In one month.”

“Not counting battles?”

“Certainly not. Assassination attempts, every one.”

“Wow.” Dexter stepped back, looking faintly awestruck. Saracen let out a low whistle.

“Impressive,” he conceded.

“It is indeed,” said Skulduggery. “Look, here he comes now. You can go ask him about it yourselves.” Dexter ran over to their approaching comrades eagerly, while Saracen went to inspect – and eat – their new supplies.

“Hopeless, Hopeless!” cried Dexter, interrupting the conversation he was having with Ghastly. “Is it true you’ve faced seven assassination attempts this month?”

“Threats to our lives are not a trifling matter, Vex,” reproved Anton, fixing Dexter with a stern glare. “We are not in competition to see who can survive the greatest number of malicious encounters. The day we begin to view each other as competitors of any kind is the day our band of brothers falls apart and we become nothing more than walking carrion, awaiting the day when our enemies inevitably strike our heads from our bodies and leave us to rot in the gruesome mausoleum that is the battlefield.”

“Oh, uh, yes Anton. Of course. You’re right.” Dexter turned to Hopeless shamefacedly to mutter his apologies. “Sorry, Hopeless. I didn’t mean to imply it was a game or anything. I was just… glad you’re alive. That’s all. I’ll go now.” Dexter ran off, away from Anton’s stony glare.

“Oh, Anton.” Hopeless turned to Anton with a knowing smile as they watched Dexter leave the camp, mumbling something about gathering firewood as he went. “You don’t have to be so bitter just because I’m winning, you know.”

“I spoke only the truth. These attacks are neither amusing nor trivial. Anyway, it’s overall assassination attempts that count, not attempts per month. That means I’m still winning thirty three to your twenty six.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this chapter’s a lot stronger than my last one. In fact, it might be my favourite one yet. As always, feedback is welcome so let me know what you think.


	4. Burn the Witch!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dead Men run into trouble when Hopeless is accused of witchcraft.

An angry mob lurched through the town. They couldn’t march, driven as they were not by a single leader commanding their actions but by an overwhelming sense of righteous anger and religious fervour. They shouted and screamed as they dragged their prisoner towards the town square. Their captive’s normally unremarkable face was marred with bruises, blood dripping from his long eyelashes. He stumbled along in a daze, only held upright by his tormentors’ grasps. The mob’s shrieks were becoming louder now, deafening their hopeless victim.

“Burn the witch! Burn him! Send him back to the fiery pits of hell from whence he came!”

“I’m from Wexford!” Hopeless shouted back. He got a club to the head for his trouble and was hauled staggering the rest of the way to the town square.

The square had been transformed: the market stalls of the morning were gone, replaced with pews borrowed from the local church.  In the centre, a group of men were building a pyre.

The angry mob waited awkwardly for the pyre to be finished. “Should have thought to do this first,” one of the weavers muttered to another. There was a general murmur of agreement. Finally, the pyre was built and Hopeless was tied to it. The assembled mob was reorganised by the vicar into orderly rows, arranged so that everybody got a good view of the proceedings. They were again delayed when a disagreement arose over where the children should sit: If they were given the pews at the front so that they could see, it meant there wouldn’t be enough seats for everybody. But there were fears that if they sat the children on the floor a log might roll out of the fire and hit one of them. As the argument went on, the sky began to darken – though not from nightfall.

“Rain,” announced the vicar, and everyone groaned.

“No witch-burning today then,” commented the cobbler. The crowd began muttering angrily, some of the smaller children demanding the rain be stopped so they could see a burning.

“I’m afraid not,” said the vicar. Then, noticing the looks of disappointment surrounding him: “Come on now, we’ve only got to wait until it’s sunny again. We’ll get the witch burnt, don’t you worry. The good lord will provide.”

“I don’t remember the last time the good lord provided more than ten minutes straight of sunshine in Ireland,” said the cobbler. There was a general murmur of agreement.

“Well the next ten minutes we get, we’ll burn him. Till then, put him in the crypts beneath the church. He’ll keep till later.” A few members of the mob hurried to do as the vicar commanded, shoving Hopeless through the church doors. The rest of the mob followed, dragging the pews with them before they could get soaked in the rain.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The Dead Men watched, concealed behind the graveyard wall, as their friend was dragged down into the crypt.

“Oh, this is not good,” whined Dexter. His fingers were twisting in his tunic as he turned to Skulduggery. “What do we do?”

“Simple,” Erskine answered for him, “we go in there and get Hopeless out.”

“But what if they catch us? Then they’ll burn us too!”

“Catch us? Dexter, they’re mortals. They don’t stand a chance. Come on, last one to the crypt’s a rotten zombie.” With that, Erskine leapt over the wall, followed closely by Saracen. Dexter hesitated, but then jumped over as well, running to catch up with his comrades. None of them seemed to have noticed that Anton, Ghastly, and Skulduggery weren’t following.

Ghastly gave a weary sigh. “They’re going to get themselves killed.”

Anton nodded. “Problematic. It will take a long time to find four new recruits of their calibre.”

Ghastly was – for want of a better word – aghast. “Anton they’re your _friends_!”

Anton nodded again. “And I love them more dearly than I loved my own mother. But I’m not going into that crypt to save them.”

“We can’t just leave them, Anton! _United we stand, divided we fall_ , remember?”

“I didn’t say that. Aesop said that.”

“Actually, he wrote it. But that doesn’t mean it’s not true! And anyway, they’d–” Ghastly was cut off by the sound of a large scuffle from within the church. After a few minutes, the noise died down, but the four Dead Men did not emerge victorious.

A man with an unusually prominent chin half-ran half-limped out of the church. He had a split lip and a broken nose and presumably many other injuries under his clothes. He made his way back towards the town square and, from where they were crouched, the remaining free Dead Men could hear him shouting to the other townsfolk:

“Tell the vicar! And the carpenter, too! We need three more pyres for tomorrow. Other members of the witch’s coven came to free him but we defeated them! Let it be known!” There were many cheers from the townsfolk following this announcement.

“Oh, no,” moaned Ghastly, looking even more horrified than before. Anton, meanwhile, merely looked puzzled.

“That’s foolish. Why don’t they just tie all four of them to one pyre? What a waste of wood.” Ghastly turned to him in disbelief.

“Are you _made_ of _stone_ , Anton? For God’s sake, we can’t just sit here. We’ve got to do something!”

“I’ve already told you: I’m not going into–”

“Quiet!” Skulduggery hissed. The injured man with the prominent chin was coming back, passing dangerously close to where they crouched concealed behind the low wall. The three of them froze, Ghastly and Anton holding their breath, as the man walked past them and towards the church. When he’d gone far enough away to be out of earshot, Ghastly spoke again.

“Look, he’s about to go in. We’d better make our rescue attempt now, before he gets the idea to lock the main door.”

“I’m not going,” said Anton.

“What? Skulduggery, tell him–”

“Me neither,” Skulduggery cut him off.

“What? What’s wrong with you both? We can’t just leave our friends!”

“Anywhere else,” said Anton, “I would help, I really would. But not here.”

“For heaven’s sake, why not?”

“It’s a crypt,” answered Skulduggery.

“So?”

“Crypts are creepy,” said Anton. Skulduggery nodded in agreement.

“Crypts are… why the hell… what does that…” Ghastly spluttered, looking from Anton’s face – more suited to a funeral director than a warrior – to Skulduggery’s skeletal one. “Are you serious?”

They both nodded.

Ghastly stared at them both. Skulduggery and Anton stared at their feet. “I’m going,” he announced. “They’ve overpowered four of us already, so if I go on my own they’ll probably defeat me too. Then all five of us will be dead before tomorrow noon. You can either help me or not, but I’m telling you now that you can’t stop me. I won’t let anything stop me from trying to save them.”

A few moments of silence followed Ghastly’s little speech. Finally, with a weary groan, Anton spoke.

“I’m coming with you.”

Ghastly nodded at him. The two of them turned to face Skulduggery. For a while, he said nothing. Then:

“I’m coming too.” Ghastly smiled and Anton nodded his head toward Skulduggery respectfully. The three men stood up and began walking towards the church, Ghastly and Anton in the lead. They turned round when Skulduggery spoke again: “I’m only going to be lookout though, I’m not going in.”

Ghastly rolled his eyes but, unwilling to waste time persuading Skulduggery and risk Anton chickening out as well, made his way to the church door as fast as he could.

The three remaining Dead Men stood outside the door for a moment, Anton and Ghastly preparing to go in.

“Good luck,” Skulduggery said. Ghastly pressed his hand to the door, Anton took a last fortifying breath, and then the two of them vanished into the church.

 

 

* * *

 

Skulduggery had been stood waiting outside the church for two hours. His brothers-in-arms hadn’t reappeared, but the man with the large chin had. Once again he’d gone running into town, this time shouting for the carpenter to make six pyres instead of four. Skulduggery wondered if Anton was still calmly contemplating the needless waste of good timber, or if he was starting to panic now. He wondered if he was scared.

Skulduggery was scared.

He’d been scared the last time he was in Anton’s position. He remembered waiting for his own funeral pyre to be built, knowing that – if he was lucky – he’d only have to suffer the pain of being burned alive, not the far more agonising death that was Serpine’s red right hand.

Skulduggery Pleasant was not a lucky man.

He was scared now, at the prospect of going into the crypts to save his friends. He’d avoided contact with all places associated with death since his own, the battlefield being the one exception. He could still feel the slight tug on his soul that was the afterlife calling to him. He wasn’t sure if it was heaven or hell that awaited him, but he had no desire to find out anytime soon and every time he came close to a place like this – a place awash with death – the call became stronger.

He couldn’t go in there. He couldn’t face the ache venturing into a place like this would put on his soul.

But neither could he let his friends find out just how heart-wrenching and terrifying a violent death truly was.

His mind decided, Skulduggery stood up from behind the gravestone where he’d hidden as the large-chinned guard had made his last journey past and strode purposefully towards the church door. He took a deep breath – mentally, if not physically – and pushed it open.

The inside of the church was dimly lit, only a few candles and the faint remains of sunlight streaming in through the stained glass windows. The vast chamber that made up the main part of the church was empty, but still Skulduggery wrapped his scarf tighter around his face and pulled the brim of his hat lower still. As he walked over to the crypt he finally spotted a figure – the man with the giant chin.

Skulduggery crept up behind him, intending to take him by surprise, when suddenly the man whirled round, throwing a green powder in Skulduggery’s face as he did so.

“Take that you foul demon!” he screeched. After a moment, it was clear the powder had no effect and the large-chinned man only had time to let out a confused “What?” before Skulduggery decked him, knocking him out cold.

The man dealt with, and no other guards in sight, Skulduggery made his way down to the crypt. The door was unlocked, and on opening it became apparent why: all six of the so-called witches lay unconscious on the ground, though with few obvious injuries. In the corner a powdery green lump sat burning on a brazier, presumably keeping the Dead Men asleep. With no lungs to inhale the powder, Skulduggery alone remained unaffected.

One by one, Skulduggery dragged his comrades out from the crypt into the more diluted air of the main church. One by one they roused and, predictably, began arguing over whose fault it was they’d gotten captured. When all of them were finally fully awake, they began discussing how mortals had managed to get hold of a clearly magical power like the one they’d been overpowered with. The discussion – and the debating of possible culprits – went on for a few minutes before Saracen noticed just how dark it was.

“Bloody hell, Skulduggery, it’s night! Just how long did you wait before rescuing us?”

“Oh, a fair while. I was deciding if you were worth the bother. In the end I decided it would take too long to find a new tailor as good as Ghastly, so I decided to rescue the rest of you as well while I was at it.”

“Seriously, though, what took you so long?”

“I had other problems to face than just the guard, you know.”

“Like what?”

“I had to overcome my own fears.”

“Really? What fears?”

Skulduggery hesitated for a moment, wondering whether he should tell Saracen and the others about his issues with death. Perhaps they had reached that stage where they could talk to one another about their deepest fears and dark pasts.

Or perhaps not.

“My fear of having to listen to Dexter’s singing, for one. There was also my fear of having to listen to you moan about how late I was, my fear of being told off by Ghastly for wearing a blue shirt with a brown jacket, my fear of….” He went on and on, listing ever more ridiculous fears to make the Dead Men laugh as he led them out of the church. Soon the others were adding to his list and arguing with each other about how bad their personal habits were and the tension of the day was forgotten, everyone happily laughing and joking with one another, simply pleased to have survived another day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the lovely reviews I've had so far! I love hearing what you think of this.


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